Gillian Freeman was an English novelist, journalist, and screenwriter, who first came to notice as the scriptwriter of 'The Leather Boys' (1963), a mainstream film with a homosexual theme, ground-breaking in its day. It was directed by Sidney J. Furie, and starred Rita Tushingham and Colin Campbell. Readers consulting their film reference library ( in Britain our bible is 'Halliwell's Filmgoer's Companion') will see that it was based on a novel by Eliot George. The inversion of the name of a prominent female author might suggest that the author of the original novel was female - and indeed she was. 'Eliot George' was simply a pen name for Gillian Freeman.

She wrote a few excellent novels, and was also the biographer of Angela Brazil (pronounced 'brazzle'), the famous author who created single handed the schoolgirls' story, those ripping yarns about boisterous, intelligent, and independent girls usually at boarding school, and frequently involved in hockey games, pillow fights in the dorm, and cricket matches against the local boys' school. 'The Schoolgirl Ethic: The Life and Work of Angela Brazil', by Gillian Freeman, was published in 1976.

It is easy to laugh at Angela Brazil now, and many irredeemably ignorant feminist academics do. In fact, before her, girls were, in young persons' literature, never presented as the strong and independent characters that they always were in her books. Angela Brazil's first work, ' A Terrible Tomboy', was published in 1904, when fictional girls still had long sausage curls and sat shyly in the corner doing their embroidery.

In reality, although a life-long conservative, she elevated the consciousness and self-esteem of the young female more than anybody else this century (her books were quickly imitated in other languages of course), and that she should now be sneered at by university-coddled 'Women's Studies' staff because her plots, and the priceless slang of her heroines, might now seem rather dated, or because her novels are always set in boarding schools for the well off, leaves me speechless. There are non so blind as those who will not see.

She practically invented that priceless schoolgirl slang herself, and real schoolgirls throughout Britain imitated it. I recommend to my readers an excellent study of schoolgirl fiction by Mary Cadogan and Patricia Craig: it's title is 'You're a Brick, Angela!' (Victor Gollanz 1976), a nod to Angela Brazil obviously. It is interesting that it was published in the same year as Gillian Freeman's biography. The best Angela Brazil site that I have found on the web is here:

And here is a brief review of 'You're a Brick Angela!' It is a bit unfair - the authors are certainly not as humourlessly feminist as this reviewer claims. Sucks to her, I say.

Of course the 'St. Trinian's' books and films were outrageous parodies of the Angela Brazil mellieu. The text of the first site notes that Angela Brazil 'had a special penchant for choosing unusual names for her characters: Ethelburga, Raymonde, Aldred, Myfanwy, Morvyth, for example, and there is even a young damsel named Peachy! Miss Brazil seemed particularly attached to the name Lesbia, which was given to several important characters: Lesbia Ferrars in "Loyalty to the School", for instance, and Lesbia Carrington in "For the School Colours". Both of these seem to have been largely self portraits, suitably idealised...'

...and that leads me, in what I realise is a very discursive essay, to a wonderful poem by John Betjeman, who certainly shared the love of British popular and high culture that Gillian Freeman and I have. It, too, was certainly influenced by Angela Brazil's milieu, and is the best poem that I have ever encountered by a major poet that catches something of the ambience of petticoat discipline. I hope my readers appreciate it: certainly I could name a few readers who will.

As a footnote let me say that Arthur Rackham was one of the most beautiful illustrators of children's fiction. Here is an example of his work. Readers have probably seen it in old children's editions:

Well, if that poem does not move you, you are at the wrong site. And from this enchanting and tender poem one can trace back to Angela Brazil, whose vivacious and spirited heroines inspired it, and to Gillian Freeman, who has must be counted the definitive Angela Brazil scholar.

Gillian Freeman published other works: anti-semitism was one of her major concerns, and one of her novels, 'His Mistress's Voice', was about anti-semitism in nineteenth century Britain. She also published a couple of works dealing with Nazi society.

But the book for which Gillian Freeman will best be remembered was of a much more spicy and sensational nature. In 1967 she caused a minor commotion with the publication of 'The Undergrowth of Literature', a study of the contemporary publications that dealt with dominant and submissive relationships, and with the publications devoted to material fetishes, such as leather or rubber.

It was published by Thomas Nelson & Sons, and was reviewed in the 'Times Literary Supplement', 'London Magazine', and the 'Financial Times', so it was a mainstream publication available at any bookshop. The introduction was by Dr. David Stafford-Clark, a high profile psychiatrist of the time.

However, while many works of art begin as 'underground' or 'fringe' productions and then enter the mainstream, 'The Undergrowth of Literature' has moved in precisely the opposite direction. It has been out of print now for more than thirty years, and second hand copies have gained a kind of mystical 'underground' aura which the original hardbound book never possessed.

Hence Gillian Freeman could be summarised as a female writer with interests in the cinema, a love of British culture, including popular culture such as 'schooldays' novels, and an interest in the world of petticoat discipline and related subjects, which led to the writing of what is now regarded as one of the definitive 'classics' in this domain. I never met her, but I have always thought that we had a lot in common.

At the time that the book was published, 'London Life' had ceased publication, and the SRA publications were about five years in the future. The main source of petticoat discipline correspondence was 'Justice Weekly'. In the following extracts, the quotes that Gillian Freeman makes from the original sources are in 12 font Times New Roman, and any asides of mine are given as footnotes, so as not to disturb the continuity.

Extract One (p. 118-119 Panther edition, 1969)

Writing in 'Justice Weekly', a man calling himself 'Miss Sissy' (itself indicative of public ridicule, but which to him is obviously part of the masochistic enjoyment) tells readers of his impending marriage:

'About a year ago I became engaged and my future wife, upon meeting my mother, was immediately told about my ordeals and shown pictures of me in women's clothes. Last week my wife-to-be was even there and helped my mother dress me on Sunday morning'.

Miss Sissy goes on:

'After we get married in July she says I will not be confined to the house, but that she is going to take me with her when she buys my clothes, and have me try them on in front of the sales girls. She has many shop owners in London as personal friends. I will also be required to wear panties, girdles and nylons. I might be required to put on diapers and rubber panties and a nightgown to be humiliated in front of her friends. After I am married a few months [he promises] I will write and tell your readers how it turned out and whether I still enjoy being a transvestite or not'. (1)

The readers may expect details but not a denial, for wives of TVs are an understanding lot. This one, in an issue of 'Skirted Men', advises engaged men,

'Tell your fiancee your needs. If she's the right sort it will make you happier. If not, better know before it is too late'. Her husband, she adds, 'sleeps in a nightie, wears lingerie all the time, wears women's things whenever he's home, and we rarely go out, and he is as graceful, delightful and charming a companion as any woman could ever hope to have. We subscribe to the women's fashion magazines and go over them together, do the chores at home as two 'girl' friends, and if anything, this complete understanding has caused our interpersonal relations to be more full and satisfying then ever before'. (2)

Exract Two (p. 124)

"My Nephew, My Niece" (a short story) begins:

'Karl was fifteen when he first came to live with me. I started him out washing dishes and, to protect his clothes, I put a taffeta apron on him. Then I got silk sheets for his bed and perfumed the bedclothes. Gradually I replaced his cotton underwear with white nylon tricot, and a few weeks later some red clothing "accidentally" got in with his underwear and turned it all a delicate shade of pink'.

Now Auntie was being pretty underhand, but her devious antics paid off, for at the end of the year, during which time pretty maids had massaged his breasts and chemicals had been slipped into his food, she asks the boy:

' "Karen, are you ready to assume life as a man again? Are you prepared to abandon the delicious feel of silks against your soft skin, to forget the fragrances of lovely perfumes, the joy of soft, well-manicured hands in long leather gloves? Are you willing to exchange those graceful high-heeled shoes for heavy flat brogues? To go into tweeds instead of smooth silken dresses?" '

Of course, he isn't. As a reward she promises him a pink taffeta boudoir and a legal name change.

Extract Three (p. 127-129)

  Bill, too, becomes Betty the servant: 'In the house he has to wear a maid's cap and apron so that he can help me fix supper, clean house, wash and iron clothes, as well as other household chores', writes Bill's cousin.

Noreen, heroine of 'Punished in Panties', is taken in hand by a college sorority: 'Now your job is to wash and dry clean, spot and press all the clothes in the rag room', the girls tell her/him. 'You'll mend all rips, repair hose, shine the shoes, you'll learn to sew, put in zippers, replace buttons. Every day you'll be put in a different outfit, always something of silk, taffeta, satin, or silk jersey.You'll always wear a tight girdle, high heels, and heavy earrings as a reminder of your state here. You'll be my maid and keep the place immaculate'. Punished indeed!

There's a story entitled 'My Strangest Customer', in which the first-person narrator works in a dress store.

'It's astonishing', she says, 'how much you could find that would fit a man if you were really looking for it'.

And lo and behold, in comes a wife on a punishment binge, out to make her husband ridiculous for overspending on the family budget. The shop-girl asks to see him.

'There in the open-topped sports car he sat, scrunched down to make himself look as small as possible. He was wearing a brightly coloured printed silk dress and a scarf on his head, dark glasses and heavy foundation, big earrings, bold lipstick and his hands were in a muff. The muff? "Oh, that's to conceal the handcuffs", his wife said. "I always put them on when I take him out like this".

"And how is he doing as a maid?" I enquired.

"The house has never looked cleaner", she told me. "And he's become an excellent laundress. He's learned to put up hems now and sew a little. I enjoy teaching him little feminine tasks".'

And when the punishment period expires she plans to make him ' "maid at weekends. After all, there are still those monthly payments to be met on this car, which makes an excellent showcase for errant husbands, don't you think?" And I couldn't have agreed more heartily'.

Husband-punishing takes on some symbolic quirks. One wife whose husband put on a pair of her stockings without asking, made him ' wear a garter belt wrapped twice around his neck to hold up silk stockings running up his arms for an entire day. [She'd] even pull a stocking down over his face, as a further reminder of his wrong-doing'.

Extract Four (p. 131-132)

A short story, 'High Heels, Hose, and Heart', in a volume of 'Skirted Men', also has the heroine wielding an automatic, plus a house equipped with some odd furnishings.

' "If you don't start stripping by the time I count five, this gun goes off".'

Realising she means it, the hero undresses and stands in humiliating nakedness until she marches him upstairs to the bedroom, saying, ' "I hate to do this to you, Jerry, but it's the only way I can think of to keep you from killing yourself ".'

And there he is, looking down at the 'gleaming froth' of lingerie. She selects a brassiere. ' "The cups", she says whimsically, "go in the front".'

But as he stuffs those very cups with several pairs of her panties and puts on a 'gleaming' blouse, he has an odd sensation.

'How smooth and good the silk felt against his stomach and arms, and in his hands'. But he doesn't have much time to indulge this new thought, because at gun-point he is made to lock his masculine clothes away and then file the key so that it has no teeth.

'The sense of total isolation from all things masculine was sinking deeply into him in a way that disturbed him deeply. But he had no recourse. Sophie and the gun were in command even when she made him wire his left wrist to the securely anchored clothes pole in her fragrant closet, and used the handcuffs they had in the house to fix his right wrist to the pole. She shaved his legs then, put panties and heavy black silk stockings on to him, made him submit to squeezing his feet into a pair of her high heels, the full skirt came next, and the wide belt. She applied nail polish to his finger nails, lipsticked his mouth, put earrings on him, his plucked eyebrows were the first truly permanent mark on him...'

- and so on and so on, to a whipping and a final capitluation to constant femininity.

Extract Five (p. 134-136)

Quite the most bizarre piece of punishment fetishism is this unlikely story described in a letter to 'Justice Weekly'; from Minnesota a widower writes of his childhood, and of his mother says,

'May I take the opportunity to state that if anywhere in this old world there is a Godly, born-again, spiritual minded, strong willed woman like my mother was, one who needed companionship and believed in strict family discipline even for an elderly male, I wouldn't be a widower overnight if she were interested'.

Mother beat her children with low branches from the peach tree (and here one supposes fantasy soars from reality) , but one spring, when it became

'...too warm for the long heavy underwear, too cool for light garments',

Mother fitted sister's 'frilly' legged white panties with three layers of fancy lace dangling around the bottom of the legs, on to her youngest son.

'I cried, I begged and pleaded', he recalls, 'but it did no good. Panties were fastened to the panty-waist, leaving only the usual flap at the back for necessary purposes'.

Apparently he was a naughty child, for he writes,

'The girl's fancy lacy pants so conquered me that the result was outstanding', and even the neighbours commented on his better behaviour.

' "This is the answer", Mother said, unbuttoning my overalls and dropping them down, revealing my pretty lace panties. I wept and cried, and Mother bade me hush. I could not, so she made me remove the overalls and stand in the corner in just panties for the rest of the afternoon'.

He wore his sister's elaborate outgrown underwear until he was nine, and then inherited her bloomers.

'I started school at five years of age, wearing black satin bloomers with white embroidery ruffles hanging well down over my knees'. (Was there ever a poor family with such ornamental knickers as this one?) (3) Athletics, of course, were out of the question, but at nine Mother allowed him to take off the 'panties' for swimming lessons, but when he returned they went right on again.

At thirteen he entered high school, and at the end of the first day he arrived home to find his grandfather, uncles, and brothers waiting for him with 'an eighteen inch length of quarter-inch steel rod doubled into a loop with a nice round end for a handle hold. Now eighteen inches of quarter-inch neoprene rubber is slipped over the ends of the steel handle. Neoprene is quick, lively, and very effective'. For no given reason he is beaten by this loving family for two hours.

'Then Father laid out open-crotch old-fashioned drawers, elaborately trimmed', which he 'put on amidst the giggles of my elders'. Over that

'came a pair of bloomers such as I never dreamed of, the bottoms of the legs were cuffed, only wide enough for me to get a foot through and could not be pulled up the leg much above the knee. A four-inch wide ruffle of fancy embroidery dangled at the bottom, headed by two more similar ruffles led around each leg above, making a really ruffled bloomer leg. Oh how humiliated I was...it even humiliates me to relate the incident even at my age. I was weeping but it didn't do any good. At the back a large long wide flap had been fashioned for essential reasons. Nine large buttons held the large seat flap. A two-inch wide band fitted around my waist and locked in the back with a very small lock. I was indeed bloomered and restrained as I am sure very few men have ever been'.

Indeed! And if merely reading about tight bloomers gives pleasure to transvestites, what about this recent piece of reportage in the 'Guardian', covering the opening of a new women's boutique? 'Men on their own', says the copy, 'shop unembarrassedly at the bra counter'.

Conditioned as I am by such exclusive reading of TV tracts, I can only wonder who will wear them.

(1) This is the only hint of baby discipline in the whole book. It is surprising that she did not devote a chapter to the practice.

(2) This is a passage that could be shared with wives who are uncertain about the benefits and special bonding of petticoat discipline (see my notes to the letter 'An Ideal Husband').

(3) There are numerous chronological difficulties with the letter. If the writer's petticoating began when he was younger than five, it is doubtful if it would have had the humiliating effect described here. And if he inherited his sister's bloomers at the age of nine (this may be an error of Gillian Freeman's of course) it is hard to see how he could have been wearing her black satin bloomers to school at the age of five.

The book has a number of interesting illustrations. There are a few that are similar to those of the illustrators featured in 'Petticoat Punishment Art', and a London street photograph of a man wearing tartan skirt and jacket with patent leather single strap shoes, and his girlfriend in a black pants suit of some shiny material, and annotated 'A trend in modern fashion'. It is a fascinating book, and Gillian Freeman a fascinating woman.
Susan MacDonald